


Avid Attention

by Ladycat



Series: Married [8]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Schmoop, always a girl Rodney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just – try to behave,” General Landry says. “And not kill anyone.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Avid Attention

“Just – try to behave,” General Landry says. “And not kill anyone.”

They’re speaking via computer – Skype has nothing on SGC protocols – so John can’t look as quizzical as he wants. Not _kill_ anyone? Deciding to risk a single quirked brow, he says, “Sir?”

Landry sighs and rubs his forehead. “You’ll see. I mean it, Colonel. Don’t kill anyone. The paperwork is a bitch.”

“Right,” John tells the suddenly blank screen. “Yes, sir. I’ll try not to kill anyone.”

He already knows that the paperwork for kills, even those against enemies who are trying to invade and kill everyone and their little dogs, too, is a bitch. Is there some rumor going around the he’s trigger happy? It wouldn’t be the first time. John Sheppard is consistent about a few things and the fact that he’ll kill anyone who threatens his people (and, resultingly, his country) is a well known one.

But that’s defense. He has no idea who he’s supposed to be defending, or from what. It’s just a delegation of industry experts, whatever that means, and consultants, maybe even a few CEO’s from corporations they were going to start working with. It’s _annoying_ , sure. The whole base has been bitching about it for three weeks, now. But it’s just a meet-and-greet. Not exactly dangerous.

* * *

Two hours later, John’s hand is clamped at his thigh where his gun really, really should be and trying not to look as homicidal as he feels.

* * *

“Oh, thanks,” Meredith says, taking the plate John proffers, immediately starting in on the chicken sticks. “Are you still on neutrino-phase harmonics? Don’t you have any _genuine_ scientists or have you replaced them all with obedient yes-men?”

John grits his teeth and thinks longingly of a fire fight. Maybe an actual fire – _something_. He’s beyond being picky at this point.

Deciding that he’ll take a page out of his wife’s book, John pushes closer and curls his fingers around the ones holding up her plate. “Hey, babe. Want some of those little bagel things?”

Graceful and charming it’s not.

Meredith gives him a distracted smile, saying, “Ooh, with lox? I miss good lox. Thank you, Colonel. Anyway – ”

“Of course, babe,” he replies. It warms him to realize that she doesn’t even _notice_ that he’s calling her ‘babe’, a term she ordinarily hates like adults who can’t even add properly.

It’s a fleeting feeling: her attention drifts off him without ever really sticking. Muttering, John makes his way back to the buffet table, skirting a group of women decked out in crimson, metal, and blatant shark teeth. They make him think of spears and blood-drenched tables, which he’s seen a time or two, and how he’s so damned glad he didn’t go into business like his father wanted.

He doesn’t smile at them. That’s blood in the fucking water.

Plate refilled, John turns back to spot his wife and the incredibly _eager_ CEO who’s been courting her with the promise of big budgets, bigger staffs, and all the perks a scientist of her caliber should be afforded, are still standing. If the ladies he brought with him are sharks, _he’s_ a hunter and his prey is one happily babbling Meredith McKay. He's not letting them out of his sight for long.

What he sees makes him go cold, unable to move or even breathe.

Meredith herself is gorgeous, of course. The dress is black and strappy, showing off every inch of her lush curves and the dimple that’s forming in her shoulders from the punches John makes her practice (his wife _will_ know a few basic moves of self-defense, no matter how hard she whines and starts whispering filthily about big, big guns). Her hair is in its usual messy bun, somehow more artful thanks to the clasp her brother bought for her. She’s in flats, since she hates heels, and even only seeing the back of her is enough to take John’s breath away. This incredibly smart, abrasive, beautiful woman is his.

Unfortunately, another man’s hand is on her back. And _sliding down towards her ass._

John has just enough presence of mind to realize Meredith is moving away, head tilted at an angle that rings warning bells for anyone who knows her, when John locks an arm around her waist and yanks her bodily against him. “Excuse me,” he says, polite like his mama taught him, silk just barely covering the knife-edged hate within. “I need to speak to my wife for a minute.”

“Of course,” the CEO says, blinking between Mer and John and back again. “I hadn’t realized, mister – ”

“That’s _Colonel_ ,” she snaps frostily and leads _John_ out of the room.

They’re in Area 51, of course, and the servers in their pressed white shirts and linen bow ties are all marines, specially picked to ensure grace as well as safety. 

They take one look at John’s face and immediately scamper out of the room they’ve been using for a smoke.

Mer doesn’t wait for the door to shut before she shouts, “You are _unbelievable_! Your _wife_? _Babe?_ Don’t think I missed that little display of chauvinistic bullshit. He was just offering me a job, he – ”

“He had his hand on your ass!” John shouts right back.

“And I can take care of myself! You think this is the first time someone has tried to fuck me into working for them? Not hardly, _Colonel_. I get offers all the time, like sleeping with the charming bastards that get to be CEO’s is going to make me feel all pretty and girly about myself, and do whatever it is they want. At least male scientists get _hookers_ thrown at them!”

John’s mouth falls open. “They – what?”

“Get hookers,” she snaps back, chin thrust out into grim rage. “Which if you think about it is actually a sign of _respect_ , because they’re not expected to turn into mush-brained idiots who’ll do anything for the pretty, charming _brat_ who thinks we’re suddenly wrapped around his finger and – what?”

He’s staring. He knows he’s staring but he can’t help it. “Someone really tried to do that?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please, you know women are treated like pieces of meat. It’s not especially different for the smart ones. They just expect that we’re _grateful_.”

Yes, actually, he does know that and intellectually he can understand why stupid idiots would try it. It’s probably even successful, just like the hooker trick is with male scientists. But it isn’t what he meant.

“Mer.” His voice catches and he’s moving forward, backing her against the wall so he can curl his fingers around her shoulders, sliding them up to cup her cheeks. Suddenly a lot of things make painful sense. “Mer. Did someone try that?”

She doesn’t struggle only because she’s learned it doesn’t get her what she wants. She’s too Meredith to slump but there’s a curl of humiliation, incredibly young and still aching, in her voice as she says, “I figured it out before it went too far.” Like somehow that makes it _better_. 

Rage swamps him, breathtaking and pure. All the questions John’s carefully banked about past lovers are now irrelevant: this is the one that matters most. This is the _why_.

She takes a breath to say something, but John makes a low, negative noise. He doesn’t need to hear the details. Maybe not ever. It’s irrelevant now: he has that one, final corner to the puzzle of Meredith McKay, the hinge his questions rest on.

He almost wishes he didn’t.

Understanding takes the rage away. Meredith doesn’t know that, though, once again opening her mouth like she needs to _explain_ , expression wary like he might judge _her_ – no. John kisses her: urgent, hungry like he hasn’t just stuffed himself while glowering at the CEO’s and hiding from anyone female. Kisses her until she mewls against him, shoulders finally relaxing into his palms, body hot and molding against his as she sighs into the kiss and finally lets go.

“That’s why you didn’t believe me at first,” he tells her temple, kissing her fast and messy down the side of her face. She tastes like powder, like the makeup she painstakingly applied while bitching the whole time, and metallic, like fear and stress and worry. “Some bastard – you always say I’m too charming. That’s why, isn’t it? You thought I was like them. That I just wanted something from you.”

Hot breath pants into his face as he takes her mouth again, deep and sweet until she pushes at his chest for more air. “Yeah. That’s what I thought you wanted.” Her voice is wrecked.

“I wanted _you_ ,” John interrupts. He’s not angry, not anymore, because Mer would just reflect it back until they’re shouting their understanding at each other. He’s learned better methods with her. “I _want_ you. I want my gorgeous, brilliant wife, the one who threatens to cut my balls off as often as she sucks on them.”

Fortunately, the walls at Area 51 are _very_ good at muffling sound.

Mer gasps, jerking against him like she can’t help it, fingers in electrical sockets. “Bastard.” Her eyes are ice blue in the dimness, remembered feelings melting away as John strokes her stomach and then lower. “You can’t just say things like that to me!”

“I love you,” he says instead. Years and years of never being able to say it, or anything remotely like it. A failed marriage and a family that doesn’t understand him or care to try are the result. 

Meredith is different. For her the words have wings, taking off like there’s no struggle against gravity, no fight to break against the pressure of what should be. These words _fly_.

It’s a gift he’ll never grow tired of, the greatest she’ll ever give him: “I love _you_.”

Meredith stills, even with his hands tugging at her panties, skirt cool and silken against his forearms. Her stockings a torn mess somewhere down around her knees and he’ll catch hell for that, later. She wears a solemn expression that doesn’t suit. Her spectrum runs from pensive to profoundly hysterical and everything in between. Not serious, though. Not a little sad, no matter how a smile tugs at the dropping left edge of her lips.

“I know you do. John,” she says, and it’s a promise more profound than any _I do_. “I know.”

He kisses her again, whispering, “Won’t ever let you forget,” before he’s on his knees, dress blues be damned, easing her thighs apart to start licking, hot long strips right over her the seam of her. Meredith moans, clutching at his shoulders. There’re some breathy, confusing words about dresses, or propriety, or something equally ridiculous. John ignores them, not giving a damn. She’s hot and sweet on his tongue, already damp as he licks her open before sucking on her clit, just the way she likes, his only-mostly smooth cheeks rubbing against her thighs. He keeps going, almost ruthless, until the words turn into moans and her hands slide into his hair, yanking him even closer.

It’s hard to see through the heavy fall of her skirt, slipped over his head like some perverse sort of hood, but the fabric isn’t knit that tightly. John looks up through a black haze to see her biting her fist, knuckles white, skin flushed dark pink, choking sounds of pleasure wracking her even as John strokes her inner thighs, widening her just enough to slide two fingers inside, quirked, twisted, just where it’ll do the most good. He fingers her as fast as the awkward angle permits, waiting for that low, sobbing moan and the flood of heat around his hand.

She’s gorgeous when she comes. John keeps his eyes open the whole time.

“Fuck me,” she slurs when John pulls free, licking lips and fingers and damn proud of himself. “Now, John, you have to – ”

He’s tempted to say no, they have to go back. But it hasn’t been that long and anyway, Meredith’s got a death grip on his lapel and a familiar look in her eye. The only thing to stop her now is imminent death by invasion or incompetence, and sometimes not even then. 

He says, “Yes, ma’am,” serious and grateful because she loves him back. Loves him just like he loves her.

There’s a handy table. John scatters the butts while she makes a disapproving noise, already hiking up her dress so it lays over her back, leaning down with her legs spread. “Mer,” he breathes because _fuck_. The hottest porn has nothing on her.

“Do you really want to go back with a hard on?” she demands, looking over her shoulder with makeup smeared cheeks. “Fuck me, now.” And then, as he slides in, she gasps, “Hard, hard as you can.”

John thinks about the expression on the CEO’s face, reevaluating it with Meredith’s information. The wolfish cast wasn’t just avaricious, gleeful hands rubbed together over the money they’d make together. No, it’d been _eager_. Sexual, like the most polite version of a hidden leer.

Like sleeping with her into a contract, and maybe beyond, was something he’d take pleasure in.

John fucks her as hard as he can, hips screaming, table shuddering and screeching across the floor. He fucks until he can’t see straight, furious at the thought of someone using her like that, touching what’s his. He’s coherent enough to make sure the angle’s right, barely, but he does, familiar and sure. When everything's knotted inside and he can only barely hold on, he leands down over her straining back, soaking up warmth even as he puts his mouth to her ear and his fingers to her pussy. “Was there even a chance?” he asks.

He comes to her vicious “Don’t be _stupid!"_

It’s long, long moments later before either of them can more.

“Simpson is never going to forgive us.”

John blinks – wha? – following her waving hand to realize that yes, they’re in Simpson’s private office. Crap. Forget about the sex, that means his men were _smoking_ in Simpson’s private office. Triple crap.

“I’ll requisition her new furniture?” he offers.

“Please, like you know her requirements. No, I’ll requisition it tomorrow. You just better get it here and set up before Monday. And maybe hire a cleaning crew.” Rising onto shaky legs, Mer paws through the cabinet at the back. Drawers run slickly open and shut until she makes a triumphant noise. “Ah ha! Never quote me on this, but I’m glad Simpson’s decided she’s a real girl after all. I blame you for that, the way. The pudgy geek scored the hot air force Colonel and now you’re giving my scientists _ideas."_

“Uh?” he manages. His brains are still happily below skin and Meredith’s skirt is still bunched up around her hips, stuck somehow, and her thighs are pale and solid. He really wants to kiss them again.

“She has makeup. She _flirts with your men.”_

“She’s _dating_ one of my lieutenants,” he corrects absently.

“Yes, see! That’s my – oh, never mind. Up, Neanderthal. We have a party to get back to.”

The stockings are sacrificed in favor of cleaning up – “Forget about a cleaning crew, we need a decontamination team.” “Think Keller would approve that?” “Ass.” – and John watches, fascinated, as Meredith curses her way through makeup repair.

Then.

Then she slides out of her panties and tucks them into John’s pocket.

John hears himself gulp, staring down at the hint of tan fabric peeking from his pocket. It looks innocuous enough. No one will notice, probably. Just a bunch of something shoved into starched blue pants.

“Mer?”

“I know, it’s not really me, is it? Tell yourself you screwed me into being impish.”

This is beyond impish, he wants to protest, this is _bizarre_ \-- and hot, of course, god it’s hot – and completely uncharacteristic of her. Except she’s smiling at him. His favorite smile, the one that shines with innocent excitement, eagerness to learn, to do new things, to – 

She hits him in the shoulder, smile replaced by a more familiar glare. “You know I recognize when you’re mentally reciting _Star Trek_ , John. The only one boldly going anywhere is us, back to the party, with a damned ear worm of the theme music. Thanks for that!”

She sounds furious as they step into the hallway. She isn’t – well, she is annoyed about his propensity to compare to her opening lines of a tv show, and the inevitable ear worm that always follows. But she isn’t mad, twining her fingers into his like she can’t stop touching him, smiling with almost giddy joy as they head back.

No one pays overt attention to their return. They aren’t the first to slip off, after all, although he doubts any one else left for impromptu office sex. Or maybe not, he thinks, spying a relaxed looking Simpson with Lieutenant Saunder’s arm around her shoulders. 

There’s no use trying to pretend they escaped all notice. John doesn’t flinch, barely, when the CEO from before stands next to him. A glass is raised and tilted at him ironically, while John smiles back: tight, no teeth, and Mer says it makes him look dementedly homicidal. He’s good with that. 

He's going to be able to tell Landry that he didn't try to kill anyone. Not even once.

No one else needs to know that, though.

Especially when he looks for Meredith, who disappeared the moment they were back inside. He finds her by a bevy of sharply dressed ladies, the ones with shark-smiles, speaking low and fast, hands arcing dangerous designs in the air. They’re watching her just as intently, which is smart.. Meredith is just as possessive as he is, after all, and probably more dangerous.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” the CEO tells him while they watch. “I go with what works.”

“No," John says with the faintest of smirks: the kind he's practiced all his life at to roaring success. "I really don't have to.”

The CEO winces, but John ignores that. Mer is giving these funny little _hitches_ as she speaks, like she needs to shimmy out of the dress or it’s affecting her differently than – 

John slides a hand into his pocket, touching silk, and tries not to grin like the insufferable, fatuous, man he is.

“Ah. I don’t suppose I could offer _you_ a job, could I, Colonel?” the CEO offers, resignation belying the hopeful tilt of his head.

Two server-marines swirl by, impeccably timed to make sure their commanding officer isn’t committing homicide through telepathy, given their slightly worried expressions. John rolls his eyes at them and snags two glasses of champagne. Asti, not brut – Mer hates brut. 

“No,” he says. “You can’t.”

Drinks in hand, he crosses over to offer one to Meredith before sliding an arm tight around her waist, enjoying the way the dress moves over nothing at all, before pecking her on the cheek. “Hey, babe. I missed you.”


End file.
